Moth to the Flame
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Follow-up to 'Fire and Ice'. Malcolm can run, but he can't hide...
1. Chapter 1

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

 **This story been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I offer my sincere thanks, as always.**

 **This story contains adult sexual content. If material of this type offends you, please do not read it.**

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 ** _Sato_**

The discovery comes at the end of a long period of boredom.

Space is a large place. Exploration of it necessarily means there are weeks – occasionally months – when the ship doesn't come across anything worth inspecting; when the days start to drag a little, and ship routine becomes, well … rather routine.

Fortunately, I have my own means of escape from routine. Trip and I measure it carefully, taking care that our hours together don't become obvious; nobody knows better than I do how effective the rumor mill can be. So far, it seems that nobody's guessed about us.

Well. _Almost_ nobody. I'm quite sure one other person knows exactly what's going on, but so far he's kept silent.

The news that a star close to our present course has a number of planets which might bear investigation makes good hearing for everyone. Even if none of them turns out to be interesting, at least they're _something_ to look at and think about, a welcome change from the anonymous streaks of light between which the ship speeds onwards, day after day.

The captain gives the order to change course. Travis's beam in response is enough to light up the Bridge, even before T'Pol announces that one of the planets appears to be Minshara-class, and may be suitable for exploration.

I glance across the well of the Bridge, to the Tactical Station. The dark head of the officer manning it is turned towards the screen. At a guess he's already assessing possible threats, and making plans to counter them.

He has the sixth sense of a cat. He clearly feels me watching him. For just a moment his gaze flicks sideways, then it drops as it always does, taking refuge in the intricacies of the controls in front of him.

For the thousandth time, I think, _What are you afraid of, Malcolm?_

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	2. Chapter 2

**_Tucker_**

The news runs around the ship like wildfire, after the uneventfulness of the past couple of weeks.

Anna Hess brings it to Engineering, her face bright with anticipation. "Sounds like it's a beautiful place, from first reports. Near-standard Earth atmosphere and gravity, no inhabitants as far as we can tell yet … how long is it since we had shore leave?"

 _Too damned long,_ I think, pulling my head out from the gap in the paneling where I've been inspecting a set of relays that's been giving me fluctuating readings all morning. "How soon will we get there?" I ask, picking up a cloth to clean my hands.

"Half a day, maybe." My XO chuckles. "I'm sure the captain knows we could all do with a bit of down time."

"Sure sounds like a great idea to me." I pause. "Come to think of it, maybe I'll just make the time to pay a call to the Bridge and check it out myself."

Her eyes dance. "Not that you were planning to just coincidentally mention that this might be a good time to think about shore leave."

"Wouldn't even think of it." I grin back at her.

 _And you don't know the half of it._

=/\=

I have my plans ready. They've been ready for a while, held until the time was ripe; and now I can feel the opportunity ready to fall into my hand like a fruit off the tree.

My mouth's a little dry as I step out onto the Bridge. Hoshi glances up at me, and her smile's politely welcoming. No more than that.

You wouldn't guess in a million years that less than twenty-four hours ago she was writhing on my bunk, buck-naked as I pleasured her.

Jon looks up, grinning broadly. "I guess you've heard the news, then," he says jokingly. "We were starting to forget what your face looks like."

"Someone's got to keep the engines runnin' while you guys up here are havin' all the fun." I glance casually across the Bridge. The officer at Tactical looking down at his console, studying the readouts as though expecting to read the future in them. _I'll save you the trouble, Mal. I foresee you gettin' the horizontal workout of your damn life very soon._

I'd never called Malcolm by that shortened form of his given name – never until one unforgettable night. I've never used it since, either. But I intend to call him it again very shortly.

"Oh, by the way," I add, raising my voice just a little. "I've been workin' on some modifications on one of the shuttles in my spare time. I'd like to give it a trial run when we get to the planet. Need to find out how it handles in atmosphere."

"I'm sure we can arrange that." Jon quirks an interested eyebrow. "I take it you've run all the simulations."

"All checked out fine, Cap'n. I'll fill you in on the details when I've run the trial flights." I up my voice a little more. "I even managed to fit in time to do a little tweakin' to the weapons systems."

"Really." The captain turns a guileless smile on Malcolm, whose face has come up sharply at the magic words. "So I guess there'll be two of you eager to take that trial run."

There's the slightest pause before Malcolm replies. He's not looking at Jon, but at me, and his expression's shuttered, without any of the carefully-clamped-down excitement or interest it'd ordinarily show at such a turn of events. Still, the captain's expecting a response, and failure to provide one would cause far too much curiosity – curiosity he can't afford. "Certainly, sir. With your permission," he says at last. His tone's neutral, but his eyes aren't.

"That's what Starfleet hired you for, Lieutenant," Jon says cheerfully.

He's glanced back towards me, and so doesn't see the tiny grimace that tugs at Malcolm's mouth at these words. All too often the captain's completely ignored his tactical officer's attempts to do what Starfleet hired him for – keeping the crew safe. So the irony of this statement could hardly be greater, and the cream of the joke is that he hasn't a clue of that fact.

"I'll make sure he earns his money, Cap'n."

Both of my listeners will interpret that statement quite differently. Only one of them is right. Now the only thing left to for me to organize is the necessity for a comm officer to accompany us down to a probably uninhabited planet. Once we've gotten there, there'll undoubtedly be some reason for the three of us to spend the night. Dammit, I'm the chief engineer; if I say there's something I need to work on inside the shuttle, and it needs good daylight to do it in, then I have the authority to make it happen.

There _will_ be a reason.

And if there isn't, I'll damn well invent one.

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	3. Chapter 3

**_Reed_**

In another life it might have afforded me immense amusement to see the man whom I once dismissed as a redneck hick who probably barely knew one end of a hypospanner from the other take on the role of tactician on board _Enterprise._ But when I myself am the person against whom his extremely astute tactics are being deployed, it isn't nearly so amusing.

I wasn't present when he casually mentioned to Doctor Phlox that he thought Hoshi had been overworking herself and could do with a break from shipboard routine. That little gem slipped out when the good doctor paid a visit to the Bridge to broach the subject of shore leave with the captain. I'll give the commander his due, it must have been so cleverly done that Phlox thought it was a general topic of conversation that Trip thought serious enough to mention to him; that was certainly the gist of the plot as he revealed it to Captain Archer, who immediately peered at her across the well of the Bridge in quite comical remorse at the thought that he'd been the only one not to notice that his comm officer was fading away before our eyes.

Honestly, there are times when I'm not sure which of them is the greater innocent: our commanding officer or his CMO. That said, it's entirely possible that the idea of members of the landing party engaging in illicit sexual dalliance would be one Phlox would wholeheartedly endorse; he apparently seemed to find nothing at all amiss with his wife's attempts to inveigle her way inside Trip's underwear, much to the mortification of the wearer thereof. Over our occasional meals in the Mess Hall it's become obvious that he regards our Human sexual mores as parochial and quaint at best. I suppose with three wives and their husbands in the mix, Denobulans can hardly afford to indulge in jealousy, but I suspect that we're too hardwired by evolution to be quite so free and easy with our partnerships.

As for the captain? I'm not sure. I strenuously doubt whether he'd imagine in his wildest dreams what's been conceived behind the blue eyes that glint across the Bridge at me; it's more likely that he comforts himself that the presence of Mister Propriety in person will put a completely effective brake on any prospect of high jinks. Not that he'd readily suspect his old friend of the kind of duplicity that I know full well is in operation here. I'd imagine he still thinks that Trip Tucker is his good ol' fashioned buddy at heart, the kind of all-American hometown boy who lies in bed at night dreaming about nothing more exotic than Momma's apple pie…

I could tell him differently. But then, I'm good at secrets. One day maybe he'll find out how good.

He won't like it if he does.

In the meantime, however, I'm being cunningly backed into a corner by my blond nemesis; and my dark nemesis looks on, saying nothing, only smiling that small, knowing smile.

They think they're being clever. They think that when temptation beckons I'll crumble like an oatmeal biscuit, unable to resist their wiles; unable to restrain myself from plunging back into that dark vortex of pleasure that swallowed me for one unforgettable night.

They ought to know me better than that.

I'm worse than angry: I'm disappointed. It makes me feel not so much wanted as held almost in contempt, as though my consent is something to be taken for granted; as though they only have to provide the opportunity and I'll cave in. The undoubted hurt of that bolsters my determination. I have planted my flag. _J'y suis, j'y reste_ , as the French would say.

And Trip and Hoshi can find out the hard way that they've sorely misjudged a Reed's determination

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	4. Chapter 4

**_Sato_**

Thanks to those modifications that the ship's chief engineer has carried out on Shuttlepod One in his spare time, we're to be the first to visit the planet.

Captain Archer originally wanted to tag along, but by the time we'd established orbit and done all the necessary scans the daylight was waning at our intended landing site. Trip suggested that he could take the shuttle down and 'get the borin' stuff out the way', leaving the following day free for more extended exploration. I held my breath while the captain considered this suggestion – he was clearly contemplating coming along for the ride – but he's no longer the Boy Scout who had to be first to set foot on any planet we came across. He still exudes enthusiasm, but it's more mature these days, more tempered with judgment. He acquiesced easily enough to Trip's sensible suggestion, and had his reward in T'Pol's nod of approbation. I get the feeling there's something going on between those two; maybe nothing even they are consciously aware of, but there's an obvious mutual regard and affection that even now sometimes surprises me. On her part particularly. I'd never had the Vulcans down as a species that went in much for friendship. Considering that when she first came on board her aristocratic nostrils just about quivered with disdain, as much for the company as for the odors, she's sure come down a peg or two in the last few years.

Ordinarily I'd ask to be allowed to take the shuttle's controls for a while – maybe not during the descent through the atmosphere, which is a way beyond my limited skills as a pilot yet, but the captain is keen for all of the officers to get a feel for handling the controls of a shuttlepod; who knows when we may need to take over the flying duties? I've taken over the command seat once or twice, carefully supervised by Travis, and I'm getting more confident. Maybe if this wasn't an unknown planet (complete with unknown dangers) and I'd had a few more lessons, I'd even suggest that I could take a try at flying her down, but right now I know my limitations. And if Trip has indeed been tinkering with the electronics, I'm even less inclined to take the risk.

Travis has gone off duty by the time we leave _Enterprise_ , but he comes down to the shuttle bay just the same, and is listening to Trip's explanation in the shuttlepod when I arrive. At a guess, he's keen to see for himself how the mysterious modifications have affected the craft's performance. A less humble man would be offended that as the pilot he hadn't been consulted, but Travis is far too generous to take offense readily; he has enormous admiration for Trip's engineering skills, and is obviously looking forward to testing the upgraded performance tomorrow.

Well. He's not the only one who has enormous appreciation for Trip's skills, but I keep that thought to myself. In view of the fact that not only the captain but T'Pol has opted to come down and see us off, both of us carefully avoid so much as meeting each other's eyes. I feel as though I'm trying so hard to act naturally that I must be coming across as more stilted and unnatural with every word I utter, so I sink gratefully onto the bench at the back of the shuttlepod and prepare to become part of the superstructure until we've landed safely.

There's no such escape for Malcolm; he has weapons upgrades to test. Normally he'd be almost fidgeting with eagerness, like a racehorse in the stalls. I find myself thinking that if he were a horse, he'd be an Arab stallion: compact, high-bred, and high-strung. But right now he'd be a _wild_ horse, corralled and roped, with its ears laid flat against its skull and hooves ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. Externally, he's quiet and obedient: his commanding officer said he should be here, and here he is. But he's not happy about it. Not one little bit.

I'd been more than happy to go along with Trip's scheme. But perhaps I should have realized that Malcolm Reed would resist coercion with all his formidable strength – even coercion for his own good. Now, seeing the tension in his shoulders as he takes his seat at the secondary crew station, I start to have serious doubts about whether this was such a brilliant idea after all.

The launch bay depressurizes, and the supporting hatch falls open. The gentlest of touches allows the shuttle to drop free, and Trip confirms safe launch. The dorsal camera is focused on _Enterprise_ 's underbelly, and on the wall-mounted screen in the back of the 'pod I watch the hatch doors close silently as the distance between us steadily increases.

We have to get away to a safe distance before testing can start, just in case of any mishap; the 'pod's weaponry probably isn't strong enough to do any serious damage to a starship, but I can imagine the captain not being best pleased if the paintwork got scratched. The stars beyond the front viewing port veer a little, bringing the curve of the planet into view.

"Deployin' targets for weapons test." The faint click of a button, and underneath the hull something fires.

"Acquiring weapons lock." After a moment, and with undertones of reluctance, "Locking speed increased by 0.4 seconds."

"Let 'er have it then. Soon as you're ready."

It's impossible not to hear the double meaning in that statement. A quick flush, of embarrassment or anger, stains Malcolm's face, but he says nothing. Only the jabs of his fingers entering the firing sequence are unusually forceful, so that the click of the buttons is loud in the silent cabin.

A beam of energy lances from the nose of the shuttlepod, and out in front of us something explodes. I can't help but feel that Malcolm is wishing it was Trip's head.

"Good shootin'."

"It wasn't exactly difficult," the Brit mutters.

"So I'll make the next one a bit harder for you."

Trip is true to his word. As soon as the target's deployed he starts swerving the 'pod around the sky. I have to hang on to one of the bulkheads to avoid being thrown to the floor, and Malcolm clings to the tactical array with one hand while he smacks in the commands with the other. The next shot just clips the target, which spins away, and the shuttlepod spins after it like the pursuer in an aerial dogfight. I lose my hold of the bulkhead and get thrown to the other side of the 'pod (fortunately I manage to drop to the floor first, so it's really more of an undignified slide, at the end of which my butt thuds into the superstructure to bring me to a halt), but – probably out of sheer cussed obstinacy – Malcolm's still hanging on somehow. His teeth gritted, he slams in more commands, and finally the target slewing across the screen explodes.

"Right. Guess that's enough for you to put in your report. Let's go check out that landin' site while there's still enough light left to see anythin'."

The way Trip puts the shuttle over into a nosedive towards the planet is enough to make my insides go momentarily light, the way you do when you go over a hump-back bridge too quickly. I see Malcolm clutch the console to steady himself, and the muscles in his jaw clench; it's clear that he's fighting to restrain himself from saying what he's thinking. After all, he's officially on duty, Trip is his superior officer and I'm a mere ensign. Whatever his opinion of Trip's behavior may be, he's not going to criticize him in front of me.

They'll be monitoring all this on board _Enterprise_ , of course, though I can't imagine what they think is going on. Presumably they're putting it down to the pilot testing those upgrades he mentioned by putting the shuttle through some pretty unorthodox flight maneuvers, and I don't know enough to say otherwise, but from where I'm sitting it looks like an angry man giving his anger the only vent he can find. Fortunately, even when he's furious Trip's a fine pilot, and the shuttle plows into the atmosphere on a perfectly standard approach, if a little fast. Put it this way, I've flown down to a few planets now, and I've never noticed the nose heating up this way.

Nevertheless, he won't endanger any of us, or the shuttlepod. Our forward speed slows, and the nose returns to its normal color. The remainder of the flight is normal, though now and again we veer a little as though testing something out. I notice that Malcolm is pretending not to be interested, but he's watching from the corner of his eye; after all, there are times when he has to fly the shuttle too, so any of these modifications will be something that he has to be aware of if they're implemented as standard. Personally I don't notice any difference, but then I wouldn't expect to.

Our destination's already keyed into the onboard navigation computers: a small chain of islands, isolated in the center of an ocean that occupies pretty well half of the globe. Dusk is rushing towards it across that huge expanse of unbroken water – a dusk that will be short there, since its location near the equator means its speed of rotational travel is almost greater than anywhere else on the planet.

Soon we'll be landing. Though nobody has said as much, I'm not slow – I can guess that our stay here will be rather longer than expected. One or two glances I've intercepted from Trip have already set my body tingling with anticipation. However, it's apparent that the third player in the intended games has very different ideas. And I know him well enough by now that I could shriek with frustration at the very real prospect that he could just walk away and leave the two of us to fuck each other's brains out without adding a single finger's worth of his amazing energies to the war effort. He's entirely capable of it, and if there's a lock to that incendiary anger I can feel simmering away inside him, I don't have the key to it.

Okay, Trip.

I won him over the first time.

This one's up to you.

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	5. Chapter 5

**_Tucker_**

Well, the island is all I hoped it would be. As the shuttlepod swoops low over the glorious blue ocean I hear Hoshi's breath catch, and even though as the pilot I can't afford to pay too much attention to the scenery, so I can't appreciate it the way the passengers can, still I'm aware that this is a truly gorgeous place, as unspoiled as any remote tropical island paradise back on Earth. Palm trees might be too much to ask for maybe, but there's certainly some kind of tall vegetation lining the beach; more than enough to provide shade in the heat of the day.

And, of course, privacy from the cameras high above.

Not that I'm any too worried about that. Being a Chief Engineer has its advantages. Any scan that's focused in this direction will find its results just a mite less pin-sharp than usual. Oh, they'll pick up our bio-signs okay – I'm not that big a fool that I'd endanger our safety. But detail ... detail will be a problem. Though it'll turn out to be easily solved once the instigator's back on board. Amazing what a few little lines of coding can achieve in the right place...

Pity I don't have a handy piece of coding that would work so well on the stubborn sonofabitch sitting next to me.

I know he has to see the beauty of the place; hell, the guy has eyes. But a sidewise glance shows me they're narrowed, focussed completely on the island up ahead. I already know he's furious with me and with the whole situation, but he's probably not aware that I'm just about totally pissed off with him too.

Hell, just what does he think is going on here?

… Well, cancel that. He knows just fine what's going on, and he's going to dig his damned heels in and refuse to play. Just like he's refused ever since we got back to the ship from that visit to the bHek, that night where everything changed.

Maybe if I understood where the problem was I'd be able to cope. But as it is, I'm just getting angrier and angrier. Maybe that's easier than admitting to myself that I'm hurt, that I feel like he's rejected Hoshi and rejected me. Without even giving either of us the reason.

Is he ashamed of what we did? Because I'm not. Hell, he didn't seem to be having any problem with it back there. He didn't seem to mind seeing and being seen, touching and being touched, fucking and being fucked; being more human than I've ever seen him, a private man finally lowering those formidable barriers of his.

Maybe that last _is_ the problem. For the longest time after he came on board _Enterprise_ he wouldn't let any of us near him. I remember being amazed the first time he actually cracked a smile, even if it was this little awkward grimace that was gone almost as soon as we'd glimpsed it. I don't think it was until that time that Hoshi came in with his birthday cake that I saw a real smile on his face; the look of pleased, shy embarrassment almost transformed it. Since then, I've seen his defenses slowly relaxing, though I've never before met anyone so wary of other people, so wrapped up in their own isolation. It kind of saddened me, because underneath all those layers of secrecy and reserve he seemed like a decent guy; and as we're all saddled with each other for the rest of the voyage, I made the extra effort to try to make a friend out of him.

I think I succeeded. He's not the type to make a parade of what he feels, but there seemed to be some kind of cautious acceptance going on. I didn't for a moment believe that making the step from 'colleague' to 'lover' wasn't an enormous one for him, or that it wouldn't have repercussions for our friendship, but I did believe that we could weather it. And that he'd come to feel – as I certainly did – that the exchange would be worthwhile.

Now, I'm wondering. And angry.

If he feels the way he obviously does, why don't he just come out and _say_ so? He's no coward, at least not in the physical sense. I've seen for myself that he's perfectly willing to die if that's what it takes to save the ship. But now, about something that's so important and so personal, he's shut himself up like a clam with whatever's going on in that stubborn-assed head of his, and he's not even going to talk about it.

Or so he thinks.

I set the shuttle down with the lightest of touches on an expanse of sand, well above where a line of seaweed and pebbles marks the high-water mark. The problem with the engine is about to occur; the light's draining fast out of the sky above us, like somebody turned down a dimmer switch. The fried circuits will affect the internal lighting, and coincidentally enough, the power cell of the flashlight in the emergency lockers will be found to have mysteriously discharged. Surprise, surprise, the landing party is going to have to spend the night here.

And you, Mister Don't-Even-Think-About-It Reed, have an appointment with me.

Whether you like it or not.

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	6. Chapter 6

**_Reed_**

Silent and obedient as a junior officer should be when his senior is speaking, I listen to Commander Tucker lying through his bloody teeth to the captain on _Enterprise_ about a fault with the shuttlepod – a fault that mysteriously occurred as soon as he keyed in a specific series of commands into the computer.

I'm quite certain that if I take it on myself to investigate the contents of his toolbox I'll discover the exact spare parts required to put right whatever has gone wrong. And that he could, if he wanted to, make the repairs in pitch darkness with his right hand tied behind his back. But he doesn't want to. He wants the three of us stuck down here on this blasted, godforsaken lump of land in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a great big fucking desert of water.

Oh yes. Water.

Even in my current state I'll grant that he probably has no idea whatsoever of the phobia that set the seal on my father's contempt for me, and blighted my prospects of a career in the Royal Navy. I'm sure he doesn't even suspect that the sight of all that gentle motion curdles my stomach with fear, and I'm damned if I'm going to blurt it out now, but in combination with the fury I feel at being coerced into this present situation it's dangerously combustible. I'll have to keep myself locked down with every trick I learned in the Section if I'm to get through this without exploding.

And Hoshi … I can feel her eyes on me, reproachful and worried. I want to stroke her face and tell her none of this is her fault; it's all mine, I'm messed up and scared and all of this is wound up past disentangling with the terrible knowledge that neither of them have the faintest bloody idea of what they're getting into if they get close to me. (If I were to _allow_ them to get close to me – which I won't.) They think they know me; they haven't a clue. If they were to see me as I was a couple of years ago – if they were to see me as Jag, and see what I was prepared to sink to – they wouldn't touch me with sterile bloody gloves on. Hell, didn't Trip learn _anything_ from listening to me dictate all those blasted letters that time when we thought our last hour had come? Didn't he _get_ it? Didn't it give him the faintest damned clue that I'm an emotional disaster-zone, an incompetent idiot who gets into relationships and can't handle them and ends up wrecking people? Doesn't he realize that I look at both of them and see two people who don't deserve that?

Not that the basic idea isn't appealing. Sex. A night of abandoned, no-frills shagging, with no-one around for miles to see or hear, and two partners who I already know are up for just about anything. The thought draws me like a moth to a flame, but we all know what flames do to moths. I suppose it's a testament to my acting ability that they seem to think I can indulge in an all-night fuckfest with two colleagues as though it was a one-off on shore leave, but the truth is that I don't work that way. A one-off on shore leave with two or however many total strangers is one thing, and I'm up for that any day of the week, but these aren't people I can walk away from with a parting slap on the arse and forget before I'm out of the hotel foyer. These people _matter_ to me.

Is that so hard to understand? Is that something weird, shameful, warped? It's certainly something I didn't bargain on when I began the transformation into Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, that monument to repressed English respectability. In my previous incarnation it was simpler; Jag didn't go for commitment – on any level. Granted, I was part of a great team that I valued and relied on as much as they valued and relied on me, but there was no heart-wrenching when I decided to leave. I wasn't afraid Pard would shed lakes of briny tears over me; even if she'd lived to see me go, I can't imagine there'd have been any hearts-and-flowers farewell scene. Maybe a farewell fuck and a smack around the ear in parting, but that would be it. Whereas the thought of leaving _Enterprise_ , and the people aboard her who've become my family, is something that makes my heart sink – even though if I'm to pursue promotion it may well be a necessary career move eventually.

I'm so absorbed in these bitter reflections that I'm only jerked from them by Trip's voice. He's giving me an order, and by the edge on his tone he's probably repeated it once already.

Camping gear, packed away in the storage bench. Oh, what a coincidence. He even packed two for verisimilitude. That'll be handy, then – they'll be in one and I'll be in the other. It's a pity that sound carries through canvas quite effectively, but perhaps a night in purgatory will teach me not to give in to my baser urges another time. I remind myself as I lug the first of the tents up the beach that it might be a good thing to pre-warn him that I'll firmly if politely decline any summons to deal with anything, except perhaps an invasion by several shiploads of Klingons who've booked the place for their summer holidays and are loath to share.

It's soon apparent that even the biology of the place is in league against me. The trees at the edge of the beach are tough, as they'd have to be to survive in such exposed conditions; their bark hard and ridged, their leaves glossy and rigid, edged with spines. No romantic overtones there. But unfortunately for me, they're draped with vines which have no such reservations. These are making the most of the summer sunshine, and are ablaze with flowers – crimson trumpets with throats of gold. Hoshi breaks one off and puts it behind her ear. I immediately envisage her wearing that and nothing else, and a sudden rush of helpless lust makes me want to kick the shit out of the tent as I fling it down on to the sand. It's either the tent or Commander Tucker, and on the whole I feel that the regulations probably frown on breaking several of your senior officer's ribs for no better reason than that you can't shag the arse off an attractive ensign who's gagging for it.

I concentrate on disembowelling the tent. Fortunately (or 'unfortunately', for me) there's a space among the trees that might have been expressly designed for my discomfiture. It's perfectly sized to accommodate the two tents, while the trees all around spread conspiring canopies overhead. A hard glance from Trip makes it clear that he's not buying my polite suggestion that it might be better if the tents were a little further apart; ordinarily it's not a suggestion I'd have made, purely on the grounds of safety, but even I can't come up with any plausible threat here. So here we are for the night, in our own little love nest with a perfect view of our own private, idyllic beach, with our commanding officer's blessing.

And if Trip Tucker puts one bloody finger on me I'll break his neck.

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	7. Chapter 7

**_Sato_**

Dinner is a silent affair. Our main courses are, of course, taken from the emergency ration packs aboard the shuttlepod. In the very last of the daylight Trip spotted clusters of small fruits hanging on the trees and Malcolm was able to knock them down with a few accurately-aimed stones, but it's probably inevitable that when we sample them for dessert we find that even though they're not poisonous they're not ripe either. Maybe later they'll be more palatable, but right now they're woody and bitter. We'll take a few back with us to the ship for the exobiology department – we could take some for Chef as well. They may ripen, and fresh fruit is always a bonus on board.

Once the dishes are cleared away there's a rather uncomfortable silence. We've kindled a small fire from brushwood – more for the atmosphere than anything else, since there are no wild animals here and the night is warm and still. Sparks float upwards towards the tree canopy, which is gilded by the flames below. Trip's brought a flask from his rucksack and sips from it from time to time as he stares into the fire; Malcolm – restless as usual – has produced a small knife from somewhere about his person and started to whittle a piece of driftwood he found on the beach, bleached white with sunshine and salt. Goodness knows how it got there, in a place as isolated as this is.

Still, time's a-wasting, as Trip would say. And we only have a few hours here, in our island paradise. I for one am not anxious to waste any of them.

My heart beating suddenly faster, I get to my feet. I'm wearing my hot-climate uniform, and I take hold of the zip tag and pull it down slowly, slowly. Knowing the purpose of this little expedition, I didn't put on my standard Starfleet underwear when I was getting ready. Instead, the parting material reveals a lacy white bra, one I've kept for a special occasion. It makes the most of my assets, and although I'm not generously endowed, I'm not as self-conscious about it as I used to be; it was clear even to me how appreciative of them these two men were last time, and during our moments of intimacy since, Trip has amply reinforced that message. Across the fire his gaze is suddenly fixed. I know he's been waiting for me to make a move, and this is it.

Boys will be boys. When the top has slipped from my shoulders I turn my back to push down the other half of my uniform. This, of course, necessitates my bending over to help it past my calves, and I hear a moan of lust from behind me. After all, the matching lacy pants are close-fitting, and there's not much of them. They're more for decoration than modesty; modesty is the last thing on my mind tonight.

I straighten up and turn around. Trip has dropped backwards and is propped up on his elbows. The front of his pants shows that my little display has had the desired effect, and he's waiting for the second course.

Malcolm is still sitting silent, cross-legged, the knife stilled in his hands. His gaze is fixed on me, his expression unreadable. I walk around the fire, and past Trip, and come to a halt in front of him. My groin is now directly opposite his face. He only has to reach up, hook his thumbs into the lace and yank downward. My braced legs are almost trembling with the memory of last time and the yearning for it to happen again.

He moves suddenly; stands in one fluid movement. His eyes are icy darkness. "Ensign," he snaps out. Then he wheels and stalks away, down towards the shore.

Behind me, Trip snarls a curse. Passion momentarily forgotten, he scrambles to his feet. "Stay here, Hoshi. I want this sorted right now!"

As he passes me his hands slip in for a caress that promises more – much more. Then he's gone, and I sink to the soft sandy earth with a groan of frustration and anxiety.

I want to call him back; I want to settle for what I can get, and above all I want the friendship between us and Malcolm to survive this night. Because it seems to me that right now it's stretched to breaking point, and Trip's well-meant attempts to retrieve the situation may well be what snaps it altogether. But I know that the two of them are locked together like battling stags now, and unless they get to fight it out nothing will be settled. When the stags fight, the best thing a hind can do for either of them is stay out of the way. As difficult as it is for me to admit that, I can't argue with the hard truth of it. So I hunker down by the fire and help myself to a swig from Trip's discarded flask. It's bourbon, and the heat of it burns down my gullet and hits my stomach. He hasn't drunk nearly enough to make him stupid, but at a guess more than enough to make him reckless. And recklessness when dealing with a stone-cold-sober Malcolm in a rage is more dangerous than I even want to think about.

There's nothing I can do.

I settle down to the waiting.

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	8. Chapter 8

**_Tucker_**

Right. I've had enough.

We're going to sort this out once and for all, _right here and now._

Malcolm could have run, but there's nowhere he can run to; he could have made for the shuttlepod, to start fixing my little bit of sabotage on it, but right now I'm so goddamn furious I'd put him on a charge on the spot if he'd so much as opened the hatch. He probably knows that too – there's a vein of cold calculation in Malcolm, one of the things that makes him a fine Tactical Officer. I don't think I've ever seen him act impulsively, at least not in the way most of the rest of us do once in a while.

But as he strides down towards the water's edge I see him rip off his top and hurl it to the sand, and if that's not a gesture of temper I've never seen one. It ought to make me wary, but instead it just makes me madder than ever. It's more on Hoshi's behalf than my own; what the hell was the guy thinking of when he just rejected her without a goddamn word of explanation or apology? If I get nothing else out of this except a broken jaw for my trouble, somehow I'm going to haul his sorry ass back up to camp and get him to treat Hoshi like a friend and a fellow-officer rather than some piece of crap that wasn't good enough for him.

Okay. Maybe by the Starfleet manuals my behavior isn't exactly appropriate. Maybe I am pushing him too hard, maybe I should just take heed of all the signals he's giving out that he just doesn't want to know. But I'm not just doing this for me. I remember so clearly the … the _softening_ of that wary, lonely look he always wears, back then; the look of wonder. Sure, it was obvious he'd done this sort of thing before, but I knew, and Hoshi knew (we've talked about it since) that this was something special. In a dumb sort of way he reminded me of a kid from an orphanage getting a visit from Father Christmas.

I want him to feel that way again. It isn't just the sex; I want to see that light in his face. And I'm as mad as hell because I just don't get what the problem is.

At first I think he's going to wade straight into the water and swim out, taking his fury out on the waves that are rolling in, silver under the stars. And sure enough he walks out without a pause, not even stopping to strip off his pants, but he comes to an abrupt halt when he's about thigh-deep. The waves aren't high; they roll in lazily, each folding onto the sand with a soft _crump_ before retreating.

I've never seen him swim, but he must be able to – it's a part of the Starfleet physical. At a guess he's good at it too, but I'm betting he's not as good as me. So no, there's no way out that way either. He was stupid not taking off his pants, they'll slow him badly in the water. I spare a couple of seconds to strip down to my blues. I'm not having anything slowing me down if this turns into a chase out into the ocean.

I haven't made any effort to keep my pursuit secret, so he definitely hears me closing on him. I more than half expect him to dive forward into the water or lunge aside in the attempt to escape – that's if he doesn't turn around and give me that broken jaw I'm expecting. But to my surprise, he doesn't move at all. He just stands there staring out to sea, waiting for retribution to fall on his head, and when I drop a hard hand onto his shoulder he doesn't even tense up, let alone offer any resistance.

My eyes have adjusted by now to the light of the stars, and the reflection of it off the water shows me his face. What I see there stops my anger in its tracks. I expect rage, disgust, defiance, but all I see is despair.

I've never seen him looking like this. He looks like he's been beaten down till he can hardly stand, and is waiting to be beaten again.

I'll be honest. For a split second I wonder if this is just some trick to catch me off-guard, but that thought vanishes almost as soon as it's born. Whatever else he might do or say, Malcolm wouldn't stoop to something like that to win an advantage over me; and it's not like he'd even need one, because we both know he could break every bone in my body without breaking sweat. Besides, he loathes appearing less than perfect, sets himself impossibly high standards that will make him the terror of Starfleet if he ever gets his own ship. That he's so broken as to let me see him like this says a whole lot of things I'm not sure I can deal with.

So instead of unleashing the tide of resentment that's been boiling up inside me for so long, I find myself changing my grip, sliding the hand up to gently clasp the back of his neck. "Hey. Malcolm. It's okay."

"No, it bloody well isn't. Don't give me that, Trip. You know damn well nothing in this is OK."

The deep bitterness in his voice makes me hesitate, but I take what comfort I can from the fact that he'll talk at all. If he'd done his usual trick of closing up like a clam I'd have the impossible job of digging him out, but while he's talking there's a sliver of hope. If I can find the right words, of course, and wouldn't you know the linguist in the party is back up there at the camp, waiting for the pair of us to sort things out between us.

"Is it the regulations thing that's botherin' you?" I venture.

"Fuck the regulations."

Well, if there was ever a phrase I never thought to hear on Malcolm's lips, that's the one. For a moment I can't quite believe I actually heard him say it. There's a sort of feeling that the world should have come to a juddering halt. That's the sort of shock it is.

Well, so it's not the regulations then.

I need to buy myself some time in which to think, so I take a step closer. The water's not cold at all, but I can feel him shivering, and it feels natural for me to move to press up against him to share some of my body warmth. However, he clearly misinterprets this, and sloshes a couple of steps deeper, plainly trying to get away from me. I follow him, and as he stumbles to a halt and I catch up I see his face again. Now there's a completely different expression on it, and one that's just as startling: he's frozen with fear.

I can't imagine what's wrong. He's hardly hip-deep, and the sea floor beneath us is soft and sandy. If he'd been bitten or stung by something he'd surely have reacted differently? Has he caught his foot in something?

Without thought I drop down into the water, bracing myself easily against the shift of passing waves as I feel urgently around his feet and ankles. But there's nothing there. He's standing on the same soft sand as I am, sinking into it just a little as you do, but as far as I can tell he could move just fine if he wanted to.

Now I'm really worried. I can only think that he's suddenly been taken sick; maybe something in that fruit triggered one of his allergies. That would explain his weird behavior, or at least go some way towards it. If you're ill, the last thing you want is to throw yourself headlong into an orgy. I have to get him back to shore, and if necessary get him transported back up to _Enterprise_.

Just as I plant my feet to stand up again, however, one of those unexpectedly strong waves bears in. I haven't allowed for it, and the pressure throws me into Malcolm. He must have seen it coming and should be braced for it, but for some reason he hasn't even moved, and the sudden impact of my shoulder against his thigh – plus, of course, all the weight of the water behind it – is his undoing. He goes down like a ninepin, and though the wave carries both of us shoreward, its breaking rolls us around like clothes in a washing machine.

I'm more disgusted with myself than worried; the tide's coming in, the shore slopes gently out to sea for the best part of fifty meters, and the undertow's not dangerous. But next moment I have plenty to be worried about, because I catch the sound of a scream – a choking, water-swallowing scream, and Malcolm's thrashing around in the surf like he's being attacked by a Great White shark.

There _must_ be something there, something our scanners didn't pick up; some invisible menace beneath that glittering innocent surface. I get to my feet somehow and grab ahold of one of his flailing arms, and without stopping to think I use all my strength to drag him out of the water and up to the safety of dry land.

I hardly dare look at him. I expect to see chunks bitten out of him, half a leg missing, and the dark stream of blood flowing back into the waves. My first desperate inventory finds all limbs present and correct, though the way he curls up on the sand suggests he's taken a wound in the belly. I envisage half of his gut torn away, his clutching hands trying to push back what's left of his intestines.

The world seems suddenly to go very slow.

Somehow I get him onto his back and gently push his legs down. I have to see how badly injured he is, what I'm going to have to tell Phlox.

His bare torso gleams wetly in the starlight; his ribs are heaving with the way he's sucking air into them.

There isn't a mark on him.

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	9. Chapter 9

**_Reed_**

 _Fucking hell. Fucking, bollocking, shitting hell._

Well, that was fun. I throw a royal temper tantrum in front of a senior officer and an ensign and nearly end up drowning in two feet of water.

Is there any more bloody mortification the world would like to throw at me, now I've finished heaping it on myself with a spade?

As I sprawl on the sand, gasping like a landed fish, I catch one glimpse of Trip's total bewilderment as he crouches above me. At a guess he thought I'd been attacked by some monstrous, man-eating alien life-form in the shallows, and at this moment I'd actually be unutterably grateful if I had some interesting injury to validly claim his attention. The fact that I – who collect cuts, burns, and broken bones on such a regular basis that Phlox has occasionally suggested I might just as well move my things into Sickbay and live there – haven't so much as a graze on me is a sign that fate has given me over into death by abject humiliation.

Fortunately, the sand is soft. It should be easy enough to dig my way into it and bury myself for eternity, though at a guess there's something against that in the regulations, and there would therefore be Awkward Questions asked when the landing party returned to the ship minus one.

My breathing starts to slow as my panic subsides. I start to cast around in my mind for some explanation that will allow me to salvage any shred that's left of my self-respect; this is one time when Jag would come in handy, because he could lie like a bloody rug at the drop of a hat, but unfortunately Malcolm Reed is far less adept at producing glib untruths on demand.

I open my mouth to say something – anything, I haven't a clue what – when suddenly I find it's full of Trip Tucker's tongue.

This is so unexpected that I can't stop the response.

But for the scare I just had, I might – just about – have been able to push him away, whatever it cost me; the sight of Hoshi's lovely body is branded on my brain, and the light of the unnumbered bright stars overhead is more than enough to show me Trip's equal attractions, so the cost would have been devastating, even if my pride remained intact. And if I'd managed that initial rejection, my obstinacy would have done the rest. As it is, my defences have been ripped open, and Trip storms the fortress over the undefended breach.

Suddenly my priorities have changed, and pride no longer seems all-important. The passion I keep under such deadly tight control breaks loose and overwhelms me.

My father has what you'd call 'Views' on homosexuality. He shared them, unfortunately, with the local vicar, who was fond of quoting Leviticus' enlightened teaching on the subject. But as a skilful hand slips into my sodden trousers and desire roars up in my groin in answer, suddenly I can't find it in me to care that both of them would call what's going to happen an abomination. I may be destined for hell but the pathway leads through heaven, and just for one night I'm going to pause and enjoy the scenery.

Fumbling in my eagerness, I push my wet clothes off and kick them away. Trip's shedding his blues just as fast, and moments later he's on top of me. Our hands are all over each other as we kiss frantically, so desperate that our teeth clash. The sand that's stuck to our damp bodies creates friction as he pushes against me, a small thrilling discomfort.

I have to say something, I have to give him some explanation of the way I've behaved. Warn him, even, that I'm not what he thinks me. But right now the small voice of decency is drowned out by the strident clamour of my body for relief, for the pleasure I've denied myself night after night on board ship. Explanations can wait. Right now the situation calls for action, not words, and I've always prided myself on being a man of action.

"I'm not waitin' any longer, Mal." The growl makes my stomach spasm with excitement, but instead of following up on this statement he rolls off me, gets to his feet and holds his hand out to help me up.

Hoshi. The thought of her naked, willing body almost makes me moan with lust. At some point I owe her an apology too, but I'm hoping she'll accept a down-payment in services rendered in the meantime. The hardness that Trip strokes teasingly as we stagger half-entwined up the beach promises that this will be a generous one, if probably not very protracted – at least the first time around.

The firelight beckons, and like two dazzled and drunken moths, we flutter towards it. As we reach the edge of the sand Hoshi steps into view. At a guess she's heard our stertorous breathing and is reassured that Trip's brought me to my senses; the senses that slide into heart-stopping anticipation as he pushes me roughly to my knees beside the fire and reaches into the pocket of his rucksack. Of course, he's prepared for this too. He won't want damage to bring our recreation to a premature end.

Nevertheless, I can't stifle a brief gasp of discomfort as he starts to prepare me. He says something, his tone a reassuring rumble; he's not taking 'no' for an answer, but he'll wait till I'm ready. I make the conscious effort to relax, and sure enough the discomfort starts to fade.

Hoshi has simply stood watching us. Time would have been when I'd rather have been eaten alive by lions than see a junior officer witnessing what's happening to me now, but we're long past that. I accept – no, I _adore_ – the naked lasciviousness on her face.

"Just say the word, Mal," Trip breathes into my ear.

I think the air has an alcoholic content. I'm drunk with anticipation. "Yes. For God's sake, yes," I groan.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ For all the preparation and all his care, I still convulse in his grip. The sensation as my prostate gland receives the first stroke washes over me in a wave.

He stops, giving me time to adjust. I brace the heels of my hands on the ground, breathing hard. As soon as I've forced myself to relax again I give a short, sharp nod.

He withdraws and pushes in again. Agonisingly slow, exquisitely strong. After the weeks of celibacy it's almost more than I can bear. My knuckles are bone-white, my breath shuddering in my throat as I fight for control.

My eyes have closed almost automatically, but the sound of movement in front of me bring them open. Hoshi has strolled closer. Unhurriedly she takes the last step, and now once again she's directly in front of me. The white lace of her underwear lies on her perfect skin as smoothly as paint. She's gilded by the flickering firelight, but shadow cups the soft triangular mound at the top of her thighs.

I can't lift a hand: I need both of them to keep me steady, though Trip's gripping my pelvis to keep me where he wants me. I can do nothing but stare at what I can't touch, while the faint musky perfume of her body torments me.

 _Show me heaven, Hoshi._

I doubt if I've said anything – at the moment I'm not sure I could marshal enough control over my vocal cords to put four words into a coherent sentence – but maybe she's telepathic, for she slowly rotates on the spot. Her movements are liquid and sensual, the index finger of each hand slipped suggestively into the band of her panties as though ready to push them down.

My God, her arse is perfect. I shift in reflex, trying to work out some way of getting my hands on it, but she must have been watching me over her shoulder, because she dips away just out of range before she bends over again – this time with no pretence of having to slip out of anything. It's just to torture me with the full package, her lovely slender legs splayed just enough to make the best of the view, and from the sudden increase in pressure I'm not the only one who's appreciating it. As for me, I'm breathing like a winded horse, crazed with need. The sensations ripping through my body are cranking me closer and closer to the edge, and at any minute now I'm going to have to just give up and go with it, even though this wasn't exactly what I'd planned.

Hoshi, it seems, has her own plans.

She drops suddenly to the ground and before I understand what's happening she's wriggled fluidly between my arms. I have just time to register that she's rolled over onto her back before her lips close on the aching core of the need my entire body has become, and the sensation snaps my control like a rotten twig.

There's no way I can withstand that. I howl aloud as ecstasy explodes in my groin. Maybe the sudden paroxysm of my climax takes Trip by surprise, or maybe he's just been biding his time, because it's barely a second before his steady rhythm breaks apart into frenzied, desperate thrusts which propel me still further into heaven.

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	10. Chapter 10

**_Sato_**

After all the uncertainty, relief has me feeling drunker than the mouthful of bourbon I snatched from the flask now lying forgotten beside the fire.

I thought disaster had struck when I heard Malcolm cry out down by the water, and the sound of splashing. I was on my feet in an instant, ready to run down and offer whatever help I could, but Trip didn't call for me; so I just waited, my heart in my mouth. And a few minutes later I hear the sound of their footsteps in the sand, and I can't wait any more: I step to the opening between the trees, and the light of the fire behind me picks out the shapes of the two of them making their way up the beach.

Or maybe I should say 'shape' rather than 'shapes'; with a rush of relief and excitement I see that they have their arms around each other. Trip is laughing, laughter with an edge of relief in it. Malcolm is desperately serious, though wicked amusement flits across his face in response to something Trip whispers in his ear. Every now and then, as they walk up the beach, one pulls the other in for a kiss. They're both naked, and their bodies are beautiful. Trip has the wider shoulders, and is the more conventionally handsome of the two in my opinion, but Malcolm is as toned as an athlete. I know they're both formidably strong, and I shudder with anticipation as I watch them teasing and caressing each other. As both of them turn to me, Trip wears the gleam of triumph, while Malcolm is glittering with a predatory recklessness that borders on desperation.

Trip and I are evidently of one mind. Our reluctant playmate deserves a little preliminary punishment for his misbehavior earlier on. Perhaps he agrees with us, because he doesn't resist as Trip pushes him to all fours by the fire.

My oh my. Have we been a naughty boy then, Malcolm?

He certainly seems to think so, for he doesn't struggle. And he doesn't protest his innocence as I saunter closer, my mind turning over what additional contribution I can make to his torment.

Yes, Trip. Play nicely with Malcolm. After all, we'll want to use him again afterwards.

Inspiration strikes. During our previous encounter, I made certain discoveries about our armored Armory Officer's few small weaknesses. And while Trip's making sure he can't move, I can exploit one of these to the full.

Right, Mister Reed. Take a good look. My, yes, you _do_ look like a half-starved tiger eyeing a T-bone steak, but you can't move a muscle, can you? And by the look on his face, Mister Tucker is having _so_ much fun. I hope you're enjoying it too. It's so good when everyone plays nicely.

Perhaps I'll just turn around.

Slowly.

What was that, Malcolm? Touch? Oh no, we can't have that. You can just look. There. You like that, don't you? I thought you might. Oh, and Trip likes it too. _Two_ starving tigers, except that one of them is already sampling the hors d'oeuvres. Don't be rough with him, Trip, even if your eyes _are_ starting to roll.

Oh dear, Malcolm's eyes are starting to roll too. Perhaps he's taken his punishment like a good little boy, and deserves a reward.

He's too far gone to even whimper as I wriggle between his arms. And it seems I'm only just in time, because if I'm any judge of these things, detonation of his very own fully-armed warhead is imminent.

Goodbye, Malcolm.

Heavens, I wouldn't be surprised if they heard that noise up on _Enterprise_. And it appears that my innocent ministrations have had a knock-on effect, because the shocks rocking the body above me suggest that Trip is also enjoying this development quite a lot.

Imagine, both of them trying to contact the ship without using a communicator. They really are two very silly boys. I mean, I'm the comms officer and even I wouldn't try _that._

Well, I suppose I'd better get out of the way, to judge by the way the legs on either side of my head have suddenly started to look rather quivery. Yes, Malcolm, have a little lie down. _Good_ boy. Just stop gasping now, we've hardly started and I have lots more things for you to play with.

Strangely enough, Trip also seems to be suffering some difficulty with using his legs properly. With a slurred 'Back in a minute', he stumbles back out to the beach. Having seen that his torso is coated with sand, I can only approve. After all, I want a good shagging, not an all-body sandpapering. ('A good shagging'… oh dear, I can't imagine where I got that expression from.)

I sit down expectantly and wait for my two playmates to muster for duty again. Trip reappears in just a minute or two, slick as a seal and gratifyingly sand-free; lying sprawled on the sand for those few minutes, panting for breath, appears to have worked wonders for Malcolm, who turns his face to me with emphatic and ungentlemanly intentions written all over it.

Now, I know that however willing my boys may be, Mother Nature demands a certain amount of time for – let's say – refueling. This, I'm happy to say, is a period they like to fill in by running tests on my reactions. _Exhaustive_ tests. (Well, okay, maybe I mean exhaust _ing_ , but that's by the bye.) And, of course, it's only polite for me to co-operate.

Of course, they have different areas of specialty, but they both have interested, analytical minds and deft, skillful fingers. I haven't worked out yet exactly where tongues fit into the required skill-set, but if there's some kind of weaponry that can only be detonated by licking, I'll tell you who designed it.

I'm pleased to see that their time on board _Enterprise_ has made them so quick to come to decisions and act on them. In hardly any time at all, Trip's rucksack is propped against a handy tree, Trip's back is propped against the rucksack, and my butt is parked between his thighs. My hands are placed on the outside of his hips, and in the voice of a ranking officer, he orders me to keep them there until told otherwise; and of course (these men _are_ my senior officers, after all!) I, a mere Ensign, have to do as I'm ordered. The ship's tactical officer settles into place between my legs, with the expression of a man who intends to take his time.

Ooh, there are so many promises in that look.

One long, slow, strong lick presses up the length of lace.

Trip holds me still. Not that I want to go anywhere, you understand. The insides of his forearms press against the lace of my bra, but his hands are flat against my belly. They pick up quiver after quiver as a moth flutters around the inner parts of my thighs, its, soft, moist wings just brushing my most sensitive places as it passes.

Presently, however, they leave the moth to continue its fluttering, and start straying upward and inward. Their touch is light and almost random, but the mind of the best engineer of his generation is directing it. If a central nervous system can be thought of as an electrical wiring assembly, Trip manipulates circuits and relays with consummate skill.

Fingers that can deal with the most intricate workings of the most sophisticated warp drive engine in Starfleet make short work of the conveniently situated clasp of my bra. It parts so quickly that I hardly know it's happened; I'm alerted only by the parting slide of lace against skin.

Observation is one of a Tactical Officer's most valuable skills. Almost at once the moth begins straying up my twitching belly, drawn by two beguiling flowers.

The hands hold me still. Trip plainly doesn't want me disturbing the moth, which flits shyly here and there but never quite makes up its mind to settle, despite the noises I'm making for some mysterious reason.

"Sssh…. Sssh," his voice croons in my ear. He's watching the moth, and his hands cup flesh so that the flowers are presented temptingly for the moth's delectation; perhaps it needs encouragement.

But the damned insect won't be tempted, though my nerve endings shudder to the faint warm waft of air from its wings. It flutters away again and dips curiously into my navel before going back to a richer source of nectar, where it starts its maddening and indecisive dance all over again.

It seems that Trip sympathizes with my disappointment. More: that he's a secret student of exobotany. At first he's slow and careful. It seems almost as though he's afraid that the flowers are made of pink cotton candy and may bruise at the slightest touch, but to my ecstasy he soon finds this to be untrue.

I'm afraid I'm having terrible difficulty in remaining obediently quiet. And I'm not helped by the fact that the moth has made the intriguing discovery that there's an even more generous source of nectar to be reached by sliding underneath the rim of the by-now rather damp lace.

Hopefully my disobedience is being noted and will attract additional disciplinary measures later.

For such a previously shy insect, the moth's certainly undergone a personality change. And far be it from me to discourage its newly-wakened curiosity. I'm confident that my slowly pushing down my pants without first asking permission from either of the officers present will be added to the list of my transgressions. The soft murmur in an English accent definitely suggests so, though while the moth momentarily fluttered away, a pair of hands deftly removed the lace from around my ankles. The moth obviously wasn't too badly frightened though, because it soon returns, a moth as bold and inquisitive as before, if hardly any more forceful.

I'm briefly distracted by the results of Trip's crash course in botany, which has my spine bending like a bow while he whispers things in my ear that are definitely unbecoming an officer, if absolutely thrilling to imagine. When I'm able to think again, I make the spine-tingling discovery that the moth has apparently crept into the safest of safe places, and a single-minded ant-eater is in pursuit of it. Deft claws gently pull me open. Apparently the beast knows the insect's in there somewhere and is determined to explore every millimeter of every crevice. Its care and patience are phenomenal, as is the effect on my vocal cords.

The moth has gone very deep inside. Oh, very deep. So deep that even the most determined probing can't reach it, though the ant-eater's efforts are strenuous and prolonged.

Perhaps the pursuer has poor eyesight. Just as I'm getting to the point where I can't bear another second, something else attracts its attention. Maybe it thinks this is another sort of insect nestling almost out of sight. An insect that can be ever-so-gently sucked and licked out of its crevice…

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	11. Chapter 11

**_Tucker_**

 _Yes!_

This is what I wanted to hear, wanted to see, wanted to feel: Hoshi screaming out her ecstasy as she trembles and thrashes at every movement of Mal's working tongue. It doesn't even matter that it's his and not mine; my turn will come, and the thrill of watching's building my arousal again.

She levels off, panting and shuddering. I wait, choosing my moment, and then my fingers get into action.

She hasn't a _prayer_. She shrieks something, an animal howl that rings around the island, and then it's down to the groans and grunts and gasps of orgasm. She's pinned by my arms and his shoulders, and there's not a damned thing she can do but lie there and take it.

Mal sure knows his stuff. As she starts to come down he keeps at her, keeps sending her into aftershocks. Soon she can hardly muster the strength to squeal, and only when he's satisfied she's reduced to a rag doll does he let up.

The reason for this mass destruction is evident when he kneels up. I'm not the only one who's found this arousing.

I'm not sure she has the power to stand up, so I help her, taking the chance to slip my hands over her ass and pulling her against me to make her feel what this does to me. She grabs my discarded flask and sloshes some of the bourbon down her body as Mal settles down on the ground where I'd been sitting. As soon as he's ready I steady her as she straddles him.

His long exhalation's loud in the silence.

She tries to start moving, but he stops her, his expression strangely tender under the hunger. He pulls her close, his hands flat against her spine, and begins rocking her slowly. Her feet are planted on the floor behind him, her arms around his shoulders. They kiss, long and deep, and then she buries her face in his shoulder. "Move with me. Breathe with me," he whispers. There's sweat on his face and his eyes are closed; this is going to be a long haul.

I start stroking them both, telling them how goddamn sexy this looks and how beautiful they are. I kiss all the way down Hoshi's spine and get her to describe what she's feeling and what Mal is doing to her. He punctuates this with his own descriptions, while he goes on rocking, rocking, steady as a metronome. Every time her breathing starts to get ragged he stops and soothes her, voice and hand like he's gentling a skittish horse.

Finally he's ready. He pushes her body backwards, supporting it against his knees as he presses her arms down to invite me in. Her breasts taste of bourbon, and I can't get enough of them. God, she's so gorgeous and so responsive. Naked and impaled, and loving it.

Her nearest hand slips into my groin and I gasp; I wasn't expecting that. She evidently has ideas of her own, and tells me what they are, her voice slurring with want. Her mouth is red and glossy. My eyes on it, I stumble to my feet.

God. Oh god, oh god. My knees buckle as she takes me in.

Careful not to disturb what's going on, Mal pulls her upright. Seconds later his mouth's working at me too, though his fingers have taken over the job of making Hoshi's body jerk like a marionette with its strings all tangled up. This time he doesn't even try to stop her, though now she's taken over control and is pleasuring herself with him; soon his grunts and her rising moans are indistinguishable. As for me, I don't know who's doing what to me and quite honestly I don't care. My eyes are shut as I concentrate on the incredible sensation of building pressure, until suddenly it breaks on a shuddering tsunami of release as I spill into Hoshi's willing mouth.

Well, that's about finished me. I have just about enough control of my legs to lie down rather than fall down. Beside me, Mal's spending the last of his heat in Hoshi's body; his head is thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. She's gripping his shoulders, looking downwards to watch herself riding him. She looks so strong, so confidently sexy, so abandoned; if I had the strength to stand up I'd have my hands all over her, but right now I could hardly lift a finger, let alone stand up.

As the last spasms ebb away Mal falls back on the rucksack, gasping like he's run a marathon. Hoshi simply sags over him, too exhausted even to slide off.

I'm thirsty, and there are water-bottles in the shuttlepod, but I'm too tired to walk that far. And neither of them are in any better shape than I am, that's pretty plain.

The fire's dying down. Getting more firewood is _way_ too much effort. So after a few minutes I crawl over to one of the tents and just about muster enough strength to pull out a couple of blankets. It's a warm night, and there's no risk of catching a chill; and this side of the clearing is mostly covered in soft, blown sand. I don't see that going into the tents would offer any particular advantage, and either of them would be cramped for three.

Hoshi has now slipped down off Mal, and the two of them are snuggled up together. I snuggle up too, tossing two of the blankets over us anyhow. We'll sort it out later, if any of us is awake long enough. A few bits of our discarded clothes, rolled up, will do for pillows.

"Thanks, guys," whispers Hoshi sleepily. There's no reply from Mal. The guy who prides himself on his impeccable manners is already fast asleep, poleaxed by his exertions.

"Don't suppose you're up for any more?" I tease as I cuddle up behind her. Not that that's even a remote possibility, at least for a while.

She knows bravado when she hears it. "I don't see this weapon being cocked again anytime soon," she whispers back, tweaking my thoroughly discharged forward cannon.

"When it is, you'll be the first to hear about it."

"And right now, the last to care."

Well. Talk about ingratitude. I want to complain to somebody, but my brain's shutting down. Can't imagine why.

In the morning I'll be sorry for a night spent on the ground, however soft and sandy it is. But then, it's a small price to pay for a night in heaven.

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	12. Chapter 12

**_Reed_**

Dawn's breaking, over this nameless ocean on this nameless planet; and I wake reluctantly and roll over onto my back, blinking. Above me, trees are swaying gently in a mild crepuscular breeze.

Hoshi is on my left side, Trip on my right. It's been the strangest and most wonderful of nights: the exhaustion in my body is testament to the times we woke and loved, coupling in sleepy desire before tumbling back into oblivion.

Trip is awake already. He's propped on one elbow, and it seems he's been watching us sleep – a slightly unnerving thought. No quips about snoring or Sleeping Beauties follow, however; he leans down and begins kissing me, and it's immediately apparent that we're both somewhat in need of a shave.

I haven't quite got used to kissing another man. In some way I'd be hard put to define, it feels different, even disregarding the stubble. My previous homosexual encounters seldom involved kissing, except occasionally as a brief preliminary to the darker things that followed, but I feel the affection and tenderness in this, and don't quite know how to react to them.

"Guess the three of us could do with a wash-up before we go back to the ship," he says – low-voiced, because Hoshi's still sleeping soundly.

The blanket has slipped partly off her. We both admire the view, but don't touch, though the temptation's there.

Such a perfect curve…

"Maybe if the two of us take a dip and get on with the repairs, she can take her turn while we're workin'," he suggests.

It's impossible to find fault with this idea: it will give her a few extra minutes of rest, and if _Enterprise_ 's scanners happen to glance in this direction to make sure we're all still present and correct, it will surprise no-one that Trip and I, like the officers and gentlemen we are, are affording her privacy.

The scene as we step out of the treeline is stunning. The breeze is dying; there's hardly enough of it now to ruffle the surface of the ocean, and the waves hardly whisper as they break on the flawless white sand. The growing light is painting the sky apricot and gold, cloudless and clear, and the whole world looks as though it had just slipped from the Creator's hands.

Without hesitation Trip takes my hand in his. The action startles me so much I actually look down at our entwined fingers. It's easier to think about that than about the way he's walking so easily towards the water, plainly thinking that the two of us can just wade in and swim the sweat and sex away.

This is just … strange. All my life I've kept other people at a distance. Sex has never been different to that rule. I don't go to bed with friends. Pard, maybe, was an exception, but then life as part of a Section 31 team was quite unique as regards relationships. We all knew that maybe the next mission would our last; we snatched at what pleasures were there for the taking, without putting labels on anything.

Now I don't know what the rules are, and I don't know where this is taking me. I feel naked and afraid in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that I haven't a stitch on and I'm walking towards a vast sheet of water.

I want to keep walking. I want to borrow some of Trip's strength, his unthinking confidence. But my feet begin to drag of their own accord, and somehow, barely a yard from those innocuous wavelets, I stumble to a stop altogether.

His blue eyes turn towards me. (He's impossibly good-looking.) I know he's remembered what happened down here last night, and though he won't ask, he's curious.

Aha, so even a Reed can come up with a convenient lie when it matters. Cramp. Trod on a hidden stone, stepped awkwardly, and there you go. It's actually happened to me, so I know it's entirely plausible.

Instead of which, I blurt out the truth. I'm too mortified to watch him while I speak; I don't want to see any part of his regard for me drain away at the discovery that I have such a ridiculous flaw. Nevertheless, when I've laid the whole miserable story out in front of him I can't help but glance back at him apprehensively as I await his judgement.

He listens without comment. After a moment he turns towards me. His expression is thoughtful while he mulls over what I've said. Finally, "Well, I've always thought you were one of the bravest men I know. That sure puts a different slant on things."

It could hardly do otherwise. I turn my eyes towards the horizon. I know my face is burning with shame.

He puts a finger on my jaw and turns me gently back to face him. "It means you're _the_ bravest man I know."

I swallow. "How do you make that out?"

"Well. I know that Starfleet don't make exceptions in their physical exams. So that means you've gotten through a series of swimmin' tests that included total immersion, and done it well enough that the examiners didn't get a sniff of the fact you must've been scared stiff. Just as well none of the tests included bein' dumped in a tank full of bugs, because I'll tell you straight out, that'd have been the end of _my_ career in Starfleet."

"It means I can act," I mutter.

"Actin' didn't get you into that tank," he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. "Courage did."

His hard blue stare forbids me to protest. And the honest truth is that I don't really want to, even though he has no idea how long I spent shuddering in the changing rooms before I walked out in front of the examiners, or of the fact that afterwards I went into the toilets and vomited my guts up till I wouldn't have been a bit surprised to see my intestines washing around in the bowl.

"I'm glad you've told me the truth, anyway," he continues. "'Cause now I can help you."

I open my mouth to say it's kind of him to offer, but I've had all the 'help' available. God knows, my father saw to that. I don't think there could be a psychiatrist in the Home Counties who hadn't had a peek inside my head in the effort to cure me of my 'weakness'.

But it seems he's not talking about that sort of help. Before I can get a hold of what he does mean, he's scooped me up like I'm about six years old and is wading into the sea.

I'm ashamed to admit that my arms go around his neck like steel clamps. I retain just about enough sense to allow him an air supply, but as for the rest of it, as soon as I feel the first splash of water on my bare arse I'm no longer a Starfleet officer in a position of great authority, I'm a terrified kid holding on for dear life to a grown-up who has all the power.

In actual fact it's probably just as well that I freeze. The alternative is fight, and if I gave in to the terror that's gripped me, I'd quite possibly kill him to get free if that was what it took.

He walks in till he's about chest-deep. Needless to say I'm fairly well immersed by now, and breathing in tiny, rapid little gasps that aren't getting me enough oxygen. I'm heading straight for a panic attack, and in the most hostile of environments, held by a bloke who I strongly doubt is trained to handle hysterical tactical officers.

I'd curse, but I'm not sure I could control my mouth enough to get words out. I'm already hyperventilating, but I can't stop. I just lie rigid in his arms, a petrified, sorry excuse for a man, and stare up at him, hoping the sight of my naked terror will convince him that this is really, really, the stupidest idea _he_ _ever had in all his life,_ and can we just turn around and walk back on to dry land _now_ , please?

He doesn't. The prat just kisses me. All over my face. And slowly, almost reluctantly, I begin to respond.

No. It doesn't take away the terror. It doesn't even reduce it. I'm still lying there almost pissing with fear, but slowly it begins to dawn on me that something quite alien to me is happening.

I'm starting to _trust_ him.

There is something in my world that exists at the same time as the fear.

The water is still slapping my body, but I believe that Trip not only will, but can, protect me; that he's not going to let me fall.

This is so unique an experience that I can't even begin to process it. Only in the team did I feel something akin to this – well, frankly, there it was chiefly based on the fact that if one of us died during an op, probably all the rest would too, and even there I'd never have let them get me near water.

It will take time for this to become something I can put into perspective. Right now I can only look up at him wonderingly. My mouth unlocks from its rigor sufficiently to return his kisses, though I'm in no danger of releasing my death-grip around his neck.

Very slowly he takes a couple of small steps deeper. My breathing speeds up a bit more and then slowly settles again; it's still too fast, but at least I'm getting more oxygen. And the water is quietly washing away the evidence of our busy night. Our hair will have to wait – I'm not sufficiently hypnotised to let him dunk me – but when he finally turns around and wades back on to the beach we're as clean as salt water will manage.

Trip lowers me to my feet, but we don't separate at once. The sense of closeness is something I want to hang on to, even though it puzzles me. Is it possible for a lover and a friend and a superior officer to be one and the same person? He watches me closely, seeming to sense my confusion, and until my hands slip from around his neck of their own volition his own rest motionless on my sides.

Our clothes are still on the sand where we discarded them last night. Fortunately the alien colours stand out well against the brilliant whiteness so we can retrieve them all readily.

Maybe if I hadn't lost my footing and panicked in the shallows last night, these would still be on me. I hope and believe I'd have found the strength from somewhere to resist temptation; I'm afraid that once I've made my mind up, I'm hard to shift. Nevertheless, even though I abandoned all my good resolutions, I can't find it in me to regret it. My own happiness wasn't the only thing that depended on my stepping down off my pedestal, and I feel infinitely richer in the warmth of this human companionship than I ever did in the deathly chill of my self-imposed isolation.

Love? I'm not sure it's love. I'm not even sure what I understand by that word, not really. But it's contact, and that's warmth in a world where I've been freezing for as long as I remember. Maybe things will become clearer along the way. Because we need to talk, as well as touch, however uncomfortable that may be for any of us; I'm sure I'm not the only one who needs to understand what this relationship really is, and where – if anywhere – it's going. And perhaps one day I'll be brave enough to let them see the scars that I've hidden so thoroughly, though just the thought of that terrifies me; but that's the only way that I'll ever be able to believe that they care about me, the _real_ me, rather than about the construct I've made in my image.

They may not, once they know. But without honesty, everything else is meaningless. And that's the risk that, sooner or later, I'll have to take.

The shuttle's close by. Since both of us need waste packs from it, we make a pit stop.

"I'll be gettin' on with the repairs," Trip says quietly, letting go of my hand as the hatch opens. "Maybe you can wake Hoshi and make a start dismantlin' the tents. 'Fraid we don't have any breakfast, but I'm sure we can catch some when we're back on _Enterprise_."

"And you think you _can_ do the repairs." I make no effort to disguise the sarcasm, though I shoot him a grin to soften it; I know damn well he can repair it, since it was he who arranged the breakdown in the first place.

"Won't take me five minutes, Loo-tenant," he replies airily. "Good thing I brought down a few spare parts, wasn't it?"

"And I'm sure they'll just happen to be exactly the ones you need."

"Good to see I'm not the only one around here who believes in coincidence."

I reward that statement with the snort it deserves, and when we've decorously used the packs we part company, he to get on with carrying out those miraculous repairs and I to wake our partner in crime, who's still fast asleep up at the campsite.

I've definitely got the better job of the two. In our absence Hoshi has turned over and the blankets have slipped off altogether, affording me an absolutely perfect view of her absolutely perfect bum.

If time wasn't slipping away I'd probably take the heaven-sent opportunity, but as it is I draw on the Reed self-discipline and regretfully keep my paws to myself. Though I concede to a slightly soppy impulse to break off a flower from the vine looping through the tree above us, and use it to tickle her nose. It's a pleasanter wake-up call than the shrill of the alarm clock on _Enterprise_ , and she wakes up with a smile that turns my heart over.

Other parts of my body have already responded, but that's as may be. She won't see anything she hasn't seen before, though my upbringing drives me to make some effort to hide my inappropriate state. By the smile she knows perfectly well why I'm squatting in such an awkward fashion.

She takes the flower from me and puts it behind her ear before she rolls over onto her back and stretches, as unthinkingly elegant as a cat. Not one iota of blanket now spoils the view, which is even lovelier than it was in my imagination yesterday.

I try to push away the guilty thought that I'm sure it won't take nearly as long to dismantle the tents as I imagined, and surely Trip won't be able to replace all those parts in less than fifteen minutes, even if he is an engineering genius. Unfortunately, Hoshi's delving fingers quickly break down all these good resolutions, and I decide fairly quickly that it would not be the act of a gentleman to disappoint a lady.

Neither of us is up for subtlety. We haven't got time, for one thing. Fortunately I can oblige with vigour instead.

Hoshi appears to find the substitute entirely satisfactory. I certainly do.

After which I have to dismantle the tents, which is remarkably hard to accomplish when your knees seem to be made of cooked spaghetti. She does offer to help, but she needs a dip in the ocean too (more than ever now, I'm happy to say), so in the spirit of a true English gentleman I say I can manage on my own.

The true English gentleman just about has the strength to drag the re-packed tents out to the beach and down to the shuttle. Lifting the bench lid and putting them back into the storage space beneath it seems to require an enormous amount of physical effort, but I manage it.

Trip's beneath the console. One blue eye tilts in my direction. "You sure took your time," he remarks.

"These bloody things don't re-pack themselves, you know." Gratefully I fold to sit on the bench and take a bottle of water from a locker.

"Oh, I know that." A pause, while he returns his attention to the electronics above him. "Never knew packin' a tent made a woman squeal like that. Brings a whole new perspective to campin'."

I choke on the water, which is exactly what he intended of course. After what we did last night I suppose it's ridiculous to blush, but I can feel myself going a somewhat guilty shade of pink.

He's lying on his back. And it appears that whatever he's doing in the underside of the console appears to be have had a surprising effect on his physique. Apparently electronics can be as unexpectedly erotic as camping.

No wonder Starfleet's Engineering courses are over-subscribed.

I wouldn't want him to feel left out, of course. And I suppose I have just about enough energy left to take advantage of his vulnerable position. One of a tactical officer's prime objectives: take your opponent when he's at his weakest.

It's the work of a moment to push the top and bottom halves of his clothing in opposite directions.

In this clear, still air, sound carries perfectly. He must have heard me and Hoshi, and lain here visualising what was happening. God knows I did the same often enough back on _Enterprise_ – the latter, anyway – and I understand all too well why he's aching for relief. Fortunately for him, I have the solution to his problems immediately available.

His skin is still slightly damp, and tastes of salt.

Hoshi returns to the shuttle just in time to see his body arch up to me, spasming.

She strokes both of us soothingly afterwards. She's wet, naked and unbelievably lovely, and I lie on the floor of the shuttle, my head on Trip's belly, and watch her dry off with one of the blankets and then pull on her clothes – like ours, these are the same as yesterday's, since it would occasion a bit of suspicion if we'd just happened to bring along a change.

It takes some minutes before Trip seems to have reassembled his senses enough to get on with the repairs. None of us say anything.

There's an elephant in the room, though – or perhaps 'in the shuttle' is more accurate – and Hoshi evidently decides to take it by the tusks. She turns her clear eyes to me. "Malcolm, I want to ask you something."

I want to say something along the lines of 'Give me another few minutes and I'll be up for it', but I know that my humour would be an evasion. So I say nothing, just sit up and wait for whatever it is she's going to say.

"I want to know if this is going to be something you walk away from again."

Bloody hell, she doesn't want much. And yet, I can see that it's a valid enough question, from her point of view. And perhaps only now do I fully realise how hurtful my apparent rejection must have been to both of them after what happened last time. Maybe I was right to take the course of action I did, but I was wrong to do so without explaining myself. Wrong, and cowardly. No wonder Trip was angry enough to force me to face both myself and them.

I'm not going to take the coward's way out again. The moment of truth has come earlier than I'd thought, but I've already decided that I owe them honesty.

"I was completely in the wrong," I say slowly (and oh, it's such a relief to admit it to myself). "I hid behind a lot of things because that was easier than facing up to what had happened. And because dealing with it would be just … too difficult."

Trip's still working on the repairs, but I know he's listening intently.

"I've never been successful with relationships." I pause. There's so much I could say about the reasons for this, but the details of how and why I was emotionally maimed are too private, too intense, even for this moment of honesty. Maybe someday I'll feel able to talk about it, but just at this present time this trust I feel in the two of them is too new, too strange and fragile, to take the strain. "And I didn't know whether … whether it was just a one-off. 'What happens on the planet stays on the planet', that sort of thing. Maybe I wanted to believe that was all it was. For me, anyway."

From beneath the console I catch the muttered words 'Dumb sonofabitch'. Hoshi is leaning forward, watching me as though trying to gauge whether I'm still holding anything back. Fortunately for me, the Section trained me extremely well.

"I don't want … if this is …" I know what I want to say, but suddenly I'm awkward, overcome by the same overwhelming crisis of confidence in my own judgement here in an element where I've never been comfortable. But maybe tomorrow a sudden hostile encounter out in space may see _Enterprise_ lost with all hands, and the last thing I want to think as I face Eternity is _'If only I'd taken the chance they offered me.'_

I sigh, swallow, and gather my nerve. "If this is for real, I want to be part of it."

Trip finishes something off under the console and slithers out. He sits up and looks carefully at me. "You know this'll cause a mess of trouble if it gets out."

That hardly needs saying. A lapse might be forgiven, maybe an illicit bit of romance overlooked, but this is a violation of the anti-fraternisation regulations down three ranks. Not to mention that I suspect there are those in the upper echelons of Starfleet who hold the same outdated – not to say bigoted – views on homosexuality as my father does. I can imagine all too easily that Trip's family, traditionalists to the bone, will label me as the 'Limey queer' who seduced their darling son from the straight and narrow. And no doubt there will be those who'll want to believe that the two of us preyed on an innocent young ensign who was too afraid to resist our lecherous advances. I'm not in the least afraid that she wouldn't tell them the truth, but few of those who'll hear the story know Hoshi well enough to believe it, and there are none so deaf to the truth as those who don't want to hear it.

My arms are resting on my crossed legs, my fingers lightly linked. I study them for a moment. "There's nobody in my family whose ill opinion matters a jot to me in something like this," I say at last. "As for Starfleet, yes, I know there'd be trouble if it came out. But as far as I'm concerned we're three consenting adults, who are all professional enough to keep our working lives and personal lives perfectly separate. If I make a mistake when we're on duty I'll still expect you to tear a strip off me, without any reference to the fact that we happen to share a bed; I'll still expect to give Hoshi an order as her superior officer and have it obeyed exactly as any other subordinate would. If you and she can adhere to that, as I think you can, then if it did happen to come out that we were in a relationship I'd be perfectly prepared to argue our case before a tribunal if necessary. And if we weren't successful – well, there are other careers than Starfleet." (I know that if our misconduct were discovered it would be Trip who would be held responsible, being the senior officer, but I'm damned if he'd shoulder the blame alone. I'd find a way to put myself in the dock beside him somehow.)

Trip stands up. So do I. Hoshi joins us, and we put our arms around each other. It's a moment of strange solemnity, as if we're committing to something. A part of me still wants to back out, to maintain my distance; for as long as I can remember, I've belonged to no-one and committed to nothing. Now all that will have to change; I will have to plunge into the flames. A line of an old song I heard once goes through my head: _Life is not tried, it is merely survived, If you're standing outside the fire._

"It's not going to be easy," Hoshi says softly.

"Nothing worthwhile ever is," Trip answers.

I feel as if something is required of me, but at a moment so momentous I'm lost for words. Instead I kiss them both, infusing the gesture with as much as I can of acceptance, and trust, and belief in the future.

For us, there may be no future. We're travellers in a vast and unknown landscape, and who knows what we will encounter when we leave. But at this point in time I feel, for the first time that I can remember, that I'm not facing it alone. That if my worst forebodings come true, and fate decides that I meet my end out here among the stars, my last thoughts won't be, _'If only…'_

 **The End.**

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